


Embers Rise

by RiskyWrites



Series: Embers Rise [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Fluff, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyWrites/pseuds/RiskyWrites
Summary: "It had almost happened once. It could happen again."Before America joins the second World War, Steve Rogers is fighting his own personal war against the world on the streets of New York. He's determined to fight it alone, but can his best friend and longtime crush convince him that he doesn't have to?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Embers Rise [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559461
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. The Artist and the Apartment

1 -The Artist and the Apartment

Charcoal committed the echo of memory to paper before it had time to dim. Darkness and light played together across the planes of his face, catching on thick lashes, accenting the angle of his nose. Dark hair rested in messy twists against his forehead, ruffled gently with each slow breath. Soft shadows danced a lazy waltz beneath those curls. Fading daylight erased every blemish, every crack in that perfect porcelain skin and he suddenly found himself wishing he’d had more than just charcoal. There was not a single flaw to be found on that beautiful dozing face. Not as though he’d even notice them.

Fingertips traced by, smudging here, softening there, shaping each curve and angle. He held the black stick in his lips and kneaded the soft eraser a moment before adding a bit of light to the lips, brightening them and giving them a glossy shine. Sunlight flared like golden fire across his subject’s cheeks and for a moment all he could do was stare at the irreproachable beauty of the creature before him. He was no mere human. Bathed in the oranges and reds of the dying sunset, the artist’s eyes showed him what his heart already knew. He was something perfect, pristine, elevated to the very pinnacle of humanity and propelled past it. Here was Eros, Apollo, here was Lucifer, most beautiful of all the angels. Here was his absolution from the wages of sin. 

He sat transfixed and mesmerized, terrified that one wrong breath, one errant twitch would break the spell. Or worse, would reveal the ember of longing in his heart. One wrong move and it could flare, catching on his spirit like dry leaves and starting a roaring wildfire that couldn’t be quenched. It had almost happened before. 

It could happen again. 

_Patience_ , he coaxed himself. _Patience._ But it was too late. He was tired of ‘patience’, and recognition of that ember simply made it pulse with a heat he was all too familiar with. _What harm would it do?_ He asked himself. _I could touch that golden skin, that silky hair. He wouldn’t notice. He wouldn’t even wake._ His heart was pounding now, but he dug his heel into the rod of the bedframe, pushing himself harder into his chair as if he could physically restrain the stubborn wants of his spirit. _I could do it… How soft would those lips be? How sweet would it be to steal his breath for my own?_

The idea set his blood racing, and he felt his heart flutter. His lips parted slightly, imagining that singular, forbidden kiss in the magic of this twilight -- and from them fell his charcoal stick. He cursed, pawing at the air to try and catch it as it tumbled through his fingers. It struck the ground and snapped neatly in two with a sharp crack.  
  
Steve froze, glancing over at Bucky, but the other man continued to snore softly. He waited one heartbeat, then another, before he let out his breath in a low rush and leaned to pick up his broken tool. As he did, his sketchbook slid sideways off his lap with a noisy clatter. 

Bucky jolted awake at the sound, pale blue eyes swimming and unfocused as he tried to remember who and where he was. Steven grimaced slightly, the spell so unceremoniously shattered. The fire in his veins retreated to a pulsing flame, suppressed back down into an ember. He felt the glow warm his cheeks. 

Leaning awkwardly to the side, one leg still propped against the side of the bed, he tried to fish up his book. “...Sorry…” he murmured lamely.

“Shit… Ah shit did I fall asleep?” Buck asked, sitting up and rubbing the balls of his palms into his eyes.

“You were tired,” Steve excused with a shrug. “You keep pickin’ up those extra shifts, they’re catchin’ up to you.” He said, sighing as he closed his book, holding it close to his chest. The spell may have been broken, but he had captured at least a glimpse of that magic on parchment. Gently he cracked the book to peek at it. Bucky’s peaceful face, relaxed in slumber, lips half parted with one hand awkwardly propped against his head. He’d loved how graceful and weightless those fingers looked dangling above his cheek. Given another ten, maybe twenty minutes, he knew there would be a thin line of drool from the corner of his lip running down to his bicep. This wasn’t an image that would win any dames, but it wasn’t meant to. It was honest. It was real. And somehow that made it so much more important to him.

“--I said lemme see.” At some point Bucky had sat up, one bare foot pressed to the cold wood floor as he reached over for the sketchbook. Steve snapped it shut on his fingers and Bucky drew them back as if they’d been slammed in a door. “Ah c’mon, why you gotta be bashful about it?”

“I ain’t _bashful_ ,” Steve lied, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks again. In a moment his face would be red and the pink splotches would start up on his neck and chest. Buck didn’t blush like that, he thought, but it wasn’t with jealousy. Not really. When Bucky blushed, his skin turned a high, even pink. It was handsome, even radiant. At least when _he_ blushed it couldn’t be mistaken for a fever. “It ain’t ready yet.”

“I don’t care if it’s ready, I wanna see.” Buck said, smiling that charming smile. He moved closer again, but this time Steve brought up a foot to the center of his chest, holding him at bay as he clutched his sketchbook to his breast. 

“I said no, James Buck!” he said, and Bucky simply leaned into him, letting Steve hold him up with one leg. His hands, rough from work, rested across the back of his bare skin and he felt himself break out in gooseflesh. He was so warm…

“You’re cold,” Bucky observed, rubbing slowly up his ankle. The ember flickered and spat, but Steve forced it down again. 

“Well, it’s gettin’ late…” he replied, both statement of fact and excuse for his chill. Steve slowly drew his leg down and away, moving to rise from the chair. He went to the window and by the way the draft was cooling his face, he didn’t need to see his reflection to know how red he was. Looking out over the city streets, he watched the night suffocate the last few glimmers of warmth from the day. Darkness settled along the horizon. The moon peeked through the clouds, illuminating the clothes still out on the lines that criss crossed over the street. They fluttered like ghosts in the dim. 

A second reflection came up beside his own and he could feel his friend standing behind him. The contrast was stark. Where Bucky was tall and dark haired with a body hardened from labor and eyelashes thick enough to rival Clark Gable, Steve was… well… Steve. He was over a full head shorter than Bucky, with narrow shoulders and blond hair that stayed messy no matter how much he tried to comb it. Bucky filled out anything he wore as if it were custom tailored to him, while Steve needed both a belt and suspenders to keep his stupid pants around his stupid angular hips. Bucky had a rakish smile that once got him confused for John Alvin and a boyish charm that could get him out of any scrape. Steve hated his own lopsided grin and his nose had been broken so many times it now had a permanent bend to it. Buck said it was hardly noticeable. And besides, he’d said, it gave him character. 

Steve didn’t think he needed any more ‘character’. 

It was hard not to stare at the difference in reflections, and it didn’t take an artist to recognize who was the more desirable specimen. Steve didn’t notice that while he was staring at Bucky’s reflection, Buck was staring right back. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and he looked away, finding the stumbling of a pair of drunks suddenly far more interesting. His cheeks felt hot again.

“Night seems darker than usual…” Bucky commented thoughtfully.

Steve perked a brow and looked out at the sky. It didn’t seem abnormal to him, but he nodded in agreement anyhow. “Yeah… Little bit.”

“Gettin’ colder too.”

This time he didn’t hesitate to nod. “Probably gonna snow sooner rather than later.”

Bucky was still staring out the window, his expression thoughtful as the moonlight bathed his features. Steve’s fingers ached for a pencil again. “...Ya know. S’no harm in just stayin’ here tonight. So you don’t gotta walk in the dark.”

Steve felt his stomach twist at the suggestion and he immediately cursed himself. _Stop it._ “Nah,” he said instead, turning away from the window. “It ain’t that far, I’ll be fine.”

“You thought any more on my offer?”

Steve bristled slightly. “I can make the rent just fine,” he growled. “I don’t need _charity_.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Bucky said, his voice full of doubt. “And it ain’t charity. It’s just… Ya know. Mutually beneficial.”

“Buck…”

“No, no, think about it. We split rent down the middle, it’s closer to downtown --”

“ _Buck_.”

But Bucky was talking faster now, eager to get his idea into the open while he still had the chance. “No -- no _listen_.”

“There’s barely enough room for one person here, let alone two.”

“I’ll _make_ room. It’s closer to the doctor and the druggist if you get sick, and when you’re not workin’ you can keep the place neat and tidy!”

A stormcloud came over Steve’s eyes. “...So you want a maid. Is that what I’m hearing?”

Bucky stumbled for a moment, derailed. “What? What no, that’s not what I’m --”

“You want me to cook and clean and darn your socks?”

“What -- I mean, I wouldn’t mind --” Steve scoffed at him and Bucky backpedaled, his tone going high and defensive. “It’s not like you don’t know how -- you gotta do your own anyway, you’d just be helpin’ me out as well!”

“You want someone to keep you clean and fed, go get a gal, James Buck. It ain’t like you’re hurtin’ for options.” He bent to pull on his shoes, gathering up his belongings.

“Ah come on, don’t be like that Steve.” Bucky made in two strides the distance it had taken Steven four. “You _know_ that’s not what I mean, you’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”

Steve whirled on him, jabbing a long finger into his chest. “I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ nowhere, James Buck. You want a dame? You go get a damn dame, don’t go shovin’ me into that slot.”

“I ain’t -- just _listen_ to me, okay? You never _listen!_ ”

“Goodbye, James.” Steve snapped, turning to grab his coat. His hand went to the doorknob but a heavier hand landed on his shoulder. He froze, feeling the anger surge inside him. But for a long moment, Bucky didn’t say anything.

“...I ain’t tryin’ to fight with you, Stevie.” He said softly. Steve didn’t respond, his hand frozen on the doorknob, nose wrinkled up in a grimace, eyes hard. “Just… we’ll talk about it more tomorrow, okay?” Still no response. Bucky gave a frustrated growl. “Answer me, will ya? Say we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Steve drew a deep breath, then let it out as his shoulders slumped. “Alright. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“ _Thank_ you…” The hand didn’t leave his shoulder. “Be careful tonight, alright? There’s a bad moon out.”

To Steve, the moon had sat as it always had, nothing good nor bad about it. But again he relented, offering an tentative glance back at his friend. Bucky’s brow was furrowed, his eyes hard with concern and frustration. With pain from their quarrel. Steve sighed again, and again he felt the tension release in his shoulders and back. There was a brief pang of guilt as he realized that he was the cause of such a handsome face being twisted in such distress. In return, he offered a lopsided smile and roughly patted the hand on his shoulder. “Alright, Buck. I’ll be careful.” He agreed. And hugging his sketchbook to his chest, he pulled open the door and disappeared into the night.


	2. Bad Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bucky was his Moon. When he was bright and full, he reveled in that pagan radiance. When he was absent, his nights felt so much darker. The man moved his tides and coaxed him to howl in a world that wanted him to stay quiet. The Moon wasn’t afraid of the claws and fangs of his bouts of temper. Those too, he could soften."
> 
> Sometimes doing the right thing ends poorly.

2- Bad Moon

The night was cool, but the breeze bit and nipped at his skin more aggressively than it had any right to. It was as if he had been bundled up in a warm, pillowy blanket, snuggled so deep and so safe that he had forgotten that there could be anything but that blissful warmth. Now he was unceremoniously thrust alone into the dark and he sorely missed what he had left behind. He clutched his hand-me-down jacket around him, far too small for Bucky, but still too large for himself, and felt the weight of his sketchbook against his chest. The moon hesitantly lit his path, delicate white light glowing through the patchwork clouds of a night-painted sky.

Where was he even going? Home to an empty apartment, cold from more than just the encroaching winter? It wasn’t empty at all, though. It was full of ghosts and haunted by the echo of memories that sucked the warmth from the walls. Memories that had yet to go cold, reminders of a daily routine that would see no more days. He didn’t want to return to the quiet, careful arrangement of feelings he knew he should sort through. It was obvious which emotions he should be experiencing. Mourning. Numb grief. A deep, placid sadness that would never be healed by however many years of slow forgetting he had left. But try as he might, these weren’t the emotions he found. 

Instead, he felt like a trespasser in his own home. He hadn’t touched anything since he had returned from the hospital that day. He didn’t want to return to the stacks of magazines on the table that would never again be thumbed through again. He wasn’t ready to fold the nurse’s apron that hung over the back of the dining chair. He wasn’t ready to go into her room, closed off since the day she had left their apartment for what would be the last time. He wasn’t ready to sort through her belongings, to decide what of her he could keep and what would need to be sold. The bills had continued to pile, despite his grief and despite her absence. The bills didn’t care if he was ‘ready’. They had been ready for months now.

Steve let out a frustrated huff of air, a warm cloud escaping his lips to freeze around his face. Maybe he should have taken Bucky up on his offer. Freelance work didn’t pay as well as a steady job would, and the few jobs he had gotten had dried up. Bucky had heard rumors that the US might get more involved with the war, which could mean government commissions if he played his cards right. But again he growled. Because he was never the one playing the cards. He was never the one that caught the rumors, he was never the one who could pick up the secret whispers of leads, no matter how long he kept his ear to the ground. Again, that was Bucky.

A cart passed him quietly, the creak of wood and the heavy clop of the horse’s hooves as it waddled down the uneven road the only sounds to break the quiet of the night. Sometimes he hated this city. Every surface was covered in a layer of grime and he was wading through a sea of soot just to get home. Even the cold felt dirty, as if the smog in the air was slowly freezing and falling in an invisible snow that clung to his skin and got into his nose and mouth and lungs. Into his blood. But… even as bleak and monochrome as it looked in the dark, even with the stink of industry and a hundred bodies, when the moon shone down on it, it has an eerie beauty that he couldn’t deny. 

What was it exactly about the Moon that could make even the smallest things seem so beautiful? It washed everything in a gentle glow, smoothing the sharp edges of the day and making everything seem soft and bearable. And no matter how hot the Sun had burned before, no matter how sharp those edges had cut, the Moon always settled in comfortably to remind him that he had survived another day. Every trial, every pain, every frustration and every misfortune, he had survived it. And now it was time to reflect, to recover. The Moon would be there, watching over him. Steve’s eyes turned up to it. It looked down at him with a quiet patience. It reminded him of the pale blue of Bucky’s eyes. 

No matter how harsh the Sun had scorched, the Moon was always there, even if it couldn’t be seen. No matter how hard life became, Bucky was always there. Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky. He painted his City with a gentle light that softened the harsh edges and made the pain seem to dull. Bucky  _ was _ his Moon. When he was bright and full, he reveled in that pagan radiance. When he was absent, his nights felt so much darker. The man moved his tides and coaxed him to howl in a world that wanted him to stay quiet. The Moon wasn’t afraid of the claws and fangs of his bouts of temper. Those too, he could soften. 

Steve’s pace slowed. Then stopped. What  _ was _ he doing? It was cold. It was late. He wouldn’t be able to sleep in the near-abandoned apartment. Bucky’d offered to let him stay there that night, hadn’t he? Even a cold floor would be warmer with life and the pulse of their shared journey. Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back and apologize. The idea sent his stomach in a knot but… If anyone deserved one, it was Buck. He looked up the street again. The Moon had a way of making everything seem to shine with its own inner glow. He wondered if he had an inner glow. He wondered if --

A scream broke the silence of the evening, high and feminine and prickly with fear. Steve was moving towards it before the sound had fully registered in his ears, clutching his leather sketchbook to his chest as he ran. Tattered shoes slapped the wet pavement and as he turned the corner, he froze. Then scowled. 

The young woman was dark haired and slender, clutching her purse with both hands as she tried again and failed again to move past a behemoth of a man. The big towhead laughed, swiping at her skirt and causing her to swat at his hand, backing right into his companion. He was smaller, but only in the way that a cargo truck was smaller than a freight engine. Steve recognized them both, and it made his blood spark with heat and fury.

“Pretty baby, it’s  _ so _ dark, and it’s  _ so  _ cold. Why don’cha just let me take you back to my place and --”   
  
“The lady don’t seem to wanna go with you, Donny Joe,” Steve yelled, forcing his voice to sound deeper. Donny Joe, the freight engine, ignored him, but Franklin turned and laughed.

“We ain’t talkin’ to you, milksop. Piss off,” the cargo truck laughed, turning back to the woman. 

Steve couldn’t hear what the men were saying to her, but he could hear the tone. He could see the snarl in their grins and the fear in the woman’s eyes. It was instinct, not logic that moved him forward and he felt himself shift his sketchbook under his left arm, grabbing a discarded pipe as he closed the distance, watching himself with a detached sort of fury. 

“Well _I’m_ talking to  _ you! _ And I said leave her alone, you creeps,” His voice sounded like a thick echo in his head. “Last warning!” He snapped, swinging the pipe. The end whistled in the air as he did. 

The freight engine turned then, straightening up to his full, imposing height. “You hear that, Frankie? Milksop’s givin’ us a warni--  _ OW! Son of a bitch! _ ” Donny Joe yelled, hitting the ground and clutching his injured knee. 

“Get outta here!” Steve yelled to the young woman, adjusting the pipe in his grip. This advantage wasn’t going to last long, he could already see Frankie starting to break out of his surprise. 

“You godforsaken runt!” The cargo truck was yelling. Steve spread his feet and prepared for the attack.

“What’s your name?”

Somehow in those few seconds, Steve had forgotten she was there. In fact, why  _ was _ she still here? She should be halfway down the block by now, not asking for his  _ name _ . The question startled him and he let out a confused chuckle. “ _What?_ ”

And then he was reeling backwards, tasting his own blood and the grease from Franklin's knuckles. His sketchbook fell from his grip and landed beside a puddle, the paper tearing under Donny Joe’s boot. Mud and stinking alley juices were soaking up into the leather, creeping to the edges of the pages.

Shaking his head to clear it, Steve brought his hands up to defend, bracing for the pummeling. It'd been a few weeks since his last fight, and the disconnected part of himself was disappointed that he hadn't at least made it a month. Buck was gonna be so disappointed in him. 

He'd forgotten what a real, solid punch felt like. One thrown from sheer rage. One thrown with the intent to cause real harm. He'd forgotten how much it hurt. A deep, blunt pain that made his skin sing and his bones feel like every molecule had been jarred out of place. Before he could register, another blow came from the opposite side, knocking his jaw out of line and made his molars squeal against each other. The world was fireworks and he felt wet along his side and realize he'd fallen to the ground.

He pulled himself back to his feet, blinking the spots from his eyes, arms up to protect his face again, but a meaty hand yanked them down, another punched him square in the eye. This time he hit the alley wall with his back and almost went down again, but he stayed on his feet and threw a wild punch. A vice went around his wrist and yanked him forward, another rock-like fist smashed into his mouth and his knees buckled for a moment. Stubbornly he pulled himself back to his feet. His head hurt so bad, he was afraid to open his eyes for fear of another fist coming at him. His skull was full of bees.

"Lay off my damn face..." He heard himself growl, wobbling on his feet but staying upright. 

If there was a response, he didn't hear it. A backhand to the side of the head made his ear ring and threw him to the ground again. This time one of the men stomped on his ankle and he screamed out in pain. A kick came to his gut, another to his back, and he curled himself into a ball, trying to bring up his arms to at least cover his broken face, but he opened his eyes just in time to see the sole of a boot and --

\-- he squeezed her hand one more time, hoping that she would squeeze back. It was getting harder and harder, her coughing fits were getting deeper and deeper and she was getting weak. Each cough brought up more blood and if it wasn't today, it'd be tomorrow for sure. He knew somewhere in his mind that he should be sad. That he should be crying. But he just felt... numb. Everything felt numb and cold, like --

\-- icy blue eyes that looked at him. At least he thought they were looking at him. It was hard to tell, there seemed to be more than usual today. Buck normally had four eyes, right? He'd somehow gotten hold of some moonshine,  _ real _ moonshine from Kentucky or something. He'd said it was strong but... Nah. Buck always had four eyes. He giggled to himself and felt strong hands on his arms.

"Eaaasy there, birthday boy. I think you've had plenty."

"I ain't even  _ started _ " he slurred happily, but he was listing to one side, and Bucky put both hands on his arms to steady him. He turned to look at him, suddenly enraptured with this gorgeous man. The planes of his nose, the shadows of his face. That lopsided smirk and those lips. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd risen up onto his toes, pressing his mouth messily to those beautiful lips. 

Bucky froze, then quickly but gently pushed him away, looking around in concern. "...Stevie you're drunk." He said softly. There was a strange note in his voice. Regret?

"Nah... Nah, see.." --

\-- "the turtles down there, Stevie?"

He smelled a trap, but he just looked suspiciously at his friend and leaned over the wooden railing further. "How can you see anything that far down?" He asked skeptically.

"Nah, look harder, lean real close over. You gotta see em, Stevie, I don't want you to miss em."

He was leaning over as far as he could when he felt Buck behind him. Strong arms looped around his thighs and lifted. "Alley-oop!"

Suddenly he was weightless, falling into the river below, seeing Bucky's stupid, grinning face growing smaller and smaller. He barely had time to pinch his nose when --

\-- another kick to the ribs brought him back to focus. Every single bone in his body hurt. There were no words spoken, no charm, no honor. Just the universal language of violence, the sound of fists on skin, of boots meeting bone. Their body trespassing against his. The taste of blood filling his mouth, the wetness all over his clothes. Was it blood? Was he laying in a puddle? Or worse, had he pissed himself when he blacked out?

Where was his pipe? It didn’t matter. He’d lost it a while ago he realized, and the moment there was a lull in the abuse, he staggered himself back to his feet. One more time. One more time. He just had to buy her some more time. He just had to wear them out, distract them, give her more time to put distance between herself and them. Steve couldn’t even see them clearly anymore, the world was spinning like the Coney Island gyroscope, but he shook his head again and brought his fists back up.

And then he saw his pipe. It was in the hands of the freight engine. Or was it the cargo truck? He couldn’t tell anymore, but when he saw the arm pull back with his pipe the world seemed to forget what it was doing. 

He could see Donny Joe’s face twisted in rage, tobacco-stained teeth bared in savage cruelty. Greasy blond hair hung weightless in the air as the muscles bulged, swinging for the fences. It didn’t seem to matter. Everything was timeless. Weightless. Eternal. He could see a tree sculpted by the wind, twisted and bent, frozen and not yet released to return to its original form. The world was suspended the way they are in dioramas. The entire universe was holding its breath. 

Steve’s eyes shifted, and the gears of time clicked back into place. The world started to move again. But something had fallen off track. Or perhaps it had shifted to something a little more true. It was the beginning of his end. The start of his death. He should have taken Buck up on his offer, he realized. For the first time -- for the only time -- he realized that just this once, he should have just run. 


	3. Sun Sets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No matter how many times the Sun sank to shade, he would never stay down for long.   
> No matter how bleak the night, the Sun would always rise again."
> 
> Always trust your gut. You never know when you can change the direction of Fate. Bucky seems to have a sixth sense about these kinds of things.

3 - Sun Sets

The door didn’t slam, and for that he supposed he should be grateful. Lately it had been a coin toss as to whether or not it would shut with a click or with a bang loud enough that he’d get an earful from Old Mrs Mathers the next morning. But tonight it closed with a resounding finality that didn’t sit quite right with him. He touched the door frame, seeing the smudge of black from the charcoal-stained thumb. Something felt wrong. Something he couldn’t place.

He tried to turn away from the door, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. They were locked in place by the nagging weight that something was Wrong. It took intentional willpower to turn away and go to finish putting away the dishes Steve had washed for him. They could have easily waited until the next day. Steve probably would have finished them when he inevitably let himself in the next afternoon, claiming that the evening light was better in Bucky’s place than in his own.

“Shit. Should’a tried using that as ammo,” he grumbled to himself, running the dishtowel over the face of a plate. The dishes could have waited. But the chore gave him something to do, a way to push back the feeling of Wrong. Habits were comforting. Rituals were important. 

James finished his chore, though there wasn’t really much of it left to do. As he came out of the tiny kitchen, he sighed at the empty chair and the draft. It was strange how much warmer the place felt with another person in it. Another person with perpetually cold hands and cold feet and a temper that flamed up like oil rags in a furnace. Another person who barely took up any space and who always was willing to tidy up for him when he was too tired to do it himself. Another person who sat in the window with his sketchbook, looking so peaceful and content it was as if the sunlight was coming from him. Another person who… had apparently left their key laying on his floor.

Bucky stooped to pick up the bit of metal and studied it for a moment. “...Come on, Stevie. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on.” But he grinned, stalking to the door and shoving his feet into his boots. One arm was in his coat as he slammed the door behind him -- making a mental note to apologize to Mrs Mathers tomorrow before she could gripe -- and took the stairs down two at a time.

Though the air was cold, he had a spring in his step. He still had the nag that something was Wrong, but the more he walked and the faster he moved the more it seemed to ease. It was like a rope around his waist, and the more he moved in the direction he was being tugged, the less it bit into his skin. He glanced up at the moon and grinned a little. His mind went again to the slender form that haunted his window every evening with that golden light shining behind him. 

_ No, _ he decided.  _ From him. _ James smiled softly at the thought. He looked at Steven like he would the Sun. He couldn't stare at him for long before it started to hurt. Sometimes it was a simple ache in his core, but others it burned. But whenever he looked away, the image of him was seared into his vision, an echo of desire made manifest. When Steve smiled, he wanted to spend his entire life basking in that sweet glow. It warmed his soul and made his skin go flush. When he burned too brightly, Buck braced to endure the blistering heat. He missed him when he retreated behind the clouds of sickness and waited anxiously for the sunlight to break through again. No matter how many times the Sun sank to shade, he would never stay down for long. 

No matter how bleak the night, the Sun would always rise again.

Bucky smiled to himself, flipping the key over and over in his hand, thinking of all the ways he could tease him. Maybe if he timed it right, he’d be right there while Stevie frantically patted down his pockets, finding the hole in his trousers that had no doubt put him in this situation. He’d be the hero, even though he knew Steve would meet him with an embarrassed blush and a defensive scowl. Maybe once they were inside and warm, they could have that talk. After all, what if he had dropped it on the street? What if Buck hadn’t found it, and he’d been stuck outside in the cold all night? Clearly he should consider his options.

He chuckled again, wondering if it would be even better to catch him before he made it home. Either way though, Steve wasn’t getting far without him. Not this time. And one way or another, they were going to talk about the move. The apartment he had shared with his mother might be familiar, but it was expensive, especially for someone without a steady job. It wasn’t that Steve was lazy, he was just frail. He knew his friend would never admit it though, and it was only a matter of time before whatever little secret savings he was using to pay the bills dried up completely. It was inevitable, and only a matter of time before they’d have to discuss this anyhow. It was time to take a risk, to move away from the comfortable and the familiar and take a leap of faith. No matter where he ran, the future would always follow.

Either way, he was enjoying the night. It held a secret sort of promise, the strange feeling that something big was just around the corner. The feeling of Wrongness hadn’t fully faded, but it was ebbing, if persistent. The City was pretty at night, the cold had a way of making the air smell sweeter and the moonlight made the shadows dance and he could hear the voices of people not far away. In fact, they didn’t sound far away at all. The Wrongness pulsed and his wistful smile faded like an evening shadow overtaken by nightfall. His ears strained and in a moment he heard a sound he’d never experienced before uttered by a voice he instantly recognized.

“ _Stevie_.” He gasped. James moved without thinking, racing towards the source of the sound, hoping, praying that he was wrong. He moved on instinct, twisting around a corner into an alley. Two big men were looming over an injured animal. He recognized them from the Docks, though he’d never worked closely with them. As he watched, one of them stooped low to pick up a pipe. As he watched, he realized the animal wasn’t an animal at all. It was his Steve.

The small man’s shirt was stained with blood, his coat torn and his face was battered. Still, he stumbled to his feet, bringing his fists up and favoring his left leg. Something was wrong with his ankle. Something was wrong with a lot of him. His lips were pulled back over his teeth in a defiant snarl and the man with the pipe was drawing back, determined to take that snarl off his face once and for all.

Bucky felt the ground shake under his feet, he saw the two men rushing closer and it wasn’t until he was throwing himself at the man with the pipe that he realized he was the one moving. “Get away from him!” He roared like a beast, ripping the weapon from their hands and hucking it to the opposite end of the alley. 

One of them was limping as they turned to face him, and Bucky felt a slight surge of pride. Steve had managed to get a bite in after all. Positioning himself between the two brutes and his friend he brought his fists up, spreading his feet and reading the fight. They moved heavy, stances too far forward, both brawlers, not trained fighters. A cold smirk crossed his lips.  _ Perfect _ . 

They studied him right back, trying to figure out who exactly had ruined their fun. He didn’t plan to give them time to figure it out. They were big, and it was a fair bet that they were either drunk or stupid. 

Hopefully both.

“Come on ladies, who wants to dance?” He taunted. It worked. A blow to the pride was always the best bait.

The bigger man came at him first, limping on a badly injured leg, pulling back with one meaty fist. He was telegraphing so blatantly that Bucky was sure they knew his move in Berlin. Barnes simply side-stepped, lashing out with a tight, precise right hook that caught him just before the ear, turning Donny Joe’s jaw to glass. He yowled like a kicked cat and staggered out of the way, holding his mouth. 

Bucky brought his hands back up, watching as Frankie came hurling towards him, an unruly mountain of meat. This time he cupped both palms and swung inwards, boxing the man’s ears. There was a startled cry and Frankie staggered sideways, pawing at one now-deaf ear. James brought his leg up and kicked him the rest of the way out of the alley. “That’s right! Beat it!” he shouted after them. 

As the two staggered their retreat, he let his breath out in a low rush, lowering his fists to turn and inspect the damage to his partner. Steve was barely on his feet, swaying, his eyes unfocused and blood running from his broken nose and split lip. His own fists were still up and Bucky grinned. “Well, you didn’t achieve much, but that was a hell of a fight.”

Steve jerked towards his voice, striking out with a wild punch. Bucky leaned away from it, catching his wrist and deflecting a second wide blow. “Hey! Hey hey, easy it’s me. It’s Bucky! Don’t -- don’t hit me.”

“Bucky?” Steve gasped, swaying. His legs were starting to shake.

“Yeah, Steve. It’s Bucky.”

“...Oh… Okay.” Steve said. His arms went limp in Bucky’s grasp and he wobbled. 

“...I think I messed up, Bucky,” His breathing sounded wet and ragged, and before Bucky could respond, his eyes had rolled up into his skull. He listed sideways before his legs completely gave out beneath him. Bucky darted forward and was able to catch him before he completely hit the ground. 

“Hey, hey take it easy. You okay?” He asked rolling him onto his back. His friend didn’t answer, so he tried again. “...Steve?” Still no response. The smaller man was rasping, each breath was a pant, as if he was using what little power he had left to remember how to breathe. It was a sound that made the hair along the back of Bucky’s neck rise. He looked around, trying to decide the best way to find help -- and spotted the torn sketchbook in the mud. 

“Shit.” He muttered, reaching down to grab the book and tuck it into his jacket before stooping to slip one arm around Steve’s chest, the other beneath his knees. “Alright. Okay. Okay I got you, just hang on,” he said, not sure if his soothing tone was meant for the unconscious boy or himself. 

“Just hang on. Just hang on, I got you,” he repeated and turned out of the alley. He bounced the light body in his arms once, and then with a face grim with determination, started to run the two miles to the hospital. 


End file.
